


a labour of love

by eggboyksoo



Series: chaos, family, love [3]
Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Comedy, Family Feels, Light Angst, Lowercase, M/M, Mild Language, kunten are trying their best as parents, mentioned johnny and mark, renjun is a Moody Teenager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 12:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18969283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggboyksoo/pseuds/eggboyksoo
Summary: “renjun must never know we looked through his sketchbook. oh my god, we’ve become those awful parents that read their children’s diaries or whatever. god, i hated those motherfuckers and now we are them!”renjun is an artistic genius with a tendency to keep things from his family. his parents struggle to support his interests while pretending they don't know about said interests.





	a labour of love

**Author's Note:**

> i really, really enjoy writing this kunten family au. we finally get to a little fic focussed on renjun and his relationship with his parents! this was originally posted on twitter, but this has been edited a little bit and there are a few tweaks. it also probably has the most kunten content out of the whole series,,, sorry it took me so long to write more about them lmao. anyway, hope you enjoy!

“ten. ten, _look_.”

ten’s eyelids feel like cement, everything fuzzy as his mind scrambles to make sense of what’s going on. he focuses on the sketchbook in his face first, then sees his husband standing over him, a bright smile lighting up his features. ten would call it adorable, if he hadn’t been woken up from a good night’s sleep.

“what the _fuck_ , kun,” ten moans, hiding his face in his pillow.

“tennie, this is important,” kun presses. ten hears rustling and his side of the bed dips--kun, he realises, sitting down on the edge of ten’s side of the bed. kun places the sketchbook down, his hand travelling to the nape of ten’s neck, rubbing it gently. ten knows the plan is to wake him up, but this feels good and he’s tired, so he allows the soft, repetitive movements lull him back to sleep.

but then he smells… something.

“acrylic?” he asks. “s’acrylic paint?”

now he’s said it out loud, ten’s brain fog begins to clear. it _is_ acrylic paint; he can recognise the smell. but it’s been years since he’s used acrylics. most of his work is digital these days, and he usually prefers to use markers for his print sketches or watercolours if he has the time.

ten’s eyes open. he waits a few moments for his eyes focus, and then he peers blearily down at the sketchbook on the bed.

it’s the same brand that ten likes to use--but a little bigger, since ten only keeps pocket sketchbooks now. the book is battered and bulging. ten’s mind idly goes back to the sketchbooks he used to fill when he was younger, when he was inspired by anything and everything, when he still wasn’t sure what direction to take. it was back when filling sketchbooks weren’t brain dumps, but labours of love.

“this isn’t mine,” ten says. as if kun doesn’t fall asleep to ten’s manic sketching on his ipad, like he doesn’t know how important that tablet is to him. (kun had bought it, after all. ten had thanked him _very_ profusely for it, too.)

“no, it isn’t,” kun replies, patient.

“who…?” ten trails off, still unable to form a sentence although his brain has finally booted up.

it’s not kun’s, he knows that without a doubt. his husband loves art, but aside from playing the piano, can’t do anything artistic to save his life. chenle sometimes likes to dress as if he wants to tell the colour wheel to go fuck itself, and yangyang’s drawing abilities peaked in third grade, when he’d won a school competition for drawing one of his favourite toy cars, and hadn’t evolved since.  

then there’s renjun. ten’s not even sure what renjun likes, except for moomin, teasing his brothers and then threatening the people who also tease his brother. is it bad, for a father to not know what his son’s interests are? renjun’s never seemed _unhappy_ , just a little closed off. but ten’s seen him with books before, constantly with his head in them, but he has more teen-angst-poet energy than budding artist.

kun opens the sketchbook. the first page has renjun’s name printed neatly in three different languages and scripts, decorated with watercolours and glitter.

if ten was in control of his mouth, it probably would’ve dropped.

“ _no_ ,” he says, because surely ten would’ve known, would’ve known he had a child with artistic ability. _surely_. but kun begins to flick through the pages, each spread becoming more elaborate and colourful. ten watches as he son goes from successfully drawing moomin to drawing a hyper-realistic eye, impressive landscapes, abstracts, and realises he doesn’t have the eye he thinks he does.

“isn’t it incredible?” kun asks, pride evident in his voice. ten doesn’t need to look over at him to see the happiness burst out of him in waves. he has every reason to be happy. their son is _talented_ , probably self-taught, spending his allowance on cheap art supplies (ten can tell that much) and experimenting and creating incredible art.

“it is,” ten says. he can’t help but feel slightly put off by the realisation, though--that his son didn’t feel comfortable to ask for help, or advice, or for ten to take him to the art store. but he gets it, he guesses. art’s personal, private, until you’re willing for it to be shared. “babe, did renjun give you his sketchbook?”

kun is silent for a moment. “uh… no,” his husband admits, sounding sheepish. “it was on the dining room table, and i honestly thought it was yours? but then i opened it--and then, obviously, it wasn’t. and then i saw it was renjun’s, and i couldn’t stop looking--”

ten snaps the sketchbook shut. he sits up, looks kun in the eye.

“kun,” he says, “renjun must never know we looked through his sketchbook. oh my god, we’ve become those awful parents that read their children’s diaries or whatever. god, i hated those motherfuckers and now we _are_ them!”

kun’s eyes are wide as ten begins to scramble out of bed, checking the time on his phone, mumbling about putting it back the way kun found it. “tennie, you’re freaking me out,” kun says. “what’s going on?”

“ _this_ ,” ten picks up the sketchbook between two fingers, as if it’s ready to burn him, “is private. renjun didn’t want us to know about this.”

it still stings a little bit, but ten gets it now. if his parents had gotten hold of his sketchbook when he was a teenager, he would’ve asked for emancipation. his sketchbook was where he processed things—love, hate, fears, hopes. ten hasn’t seen anything that details renjun’s inner thoughts and he wants to keep it that way. while he wishes his eldest son was more open with his parents, he doesn’t want to get close to him like this. not this way.

a look back at kun makes it clear he doesn’t fully get it, so ten says, “remember before we started dating, back when i used to sketch a lot more? you found my sketchbook and i nearly bit your arm off because of it.”

“yeah, because you kept sketching me, and you didn’t want me to know about all of the ugly feelings you had for me,” kun says automatically.

ten waits for a few moments for the penny to drop. kun’s eyes widen again, and he gasps. “oh.”

“get it now?”

kun takes the sketchbook from ten, frantically heading towards the door. “the kids aren’t awake yet,” he says, opening the door to their bedroom. “i’ll put this back. god, how did i not _know_?”

(when ten comes down for breakfast an hour later, there is no sketchbook to be seen on the dining table—only a huge spread of food, his three sleepy teens look appreciatively at it, all unaware their baba had been frantically cooking to appease his guilt.)

* * *

 now that ten knows renjun draws, ten sees renjun with his sketchbook literally _everywhere._

renjun sits in front of the television, at the dining table doing “homework”, narrow shoulders hunched over as he tries to hide whatever he’s sketching.

sometimes renjun watches chenle and yangyang cracking jokes, or the way kun frowns as he reads over flight plans or makes dinner. sometimes he feels renjun watching him as he sketches on his tablet. other times, ten catches renjun staring into space, gaze unfocused, idly tapping on a blank page.

ten learns what his son looks like when he’s in the middle of a sketch, what he looks like when he gets stuck or frustrated with something, the happiness that radiates from him when he finishes a piece he likes. he notices the way renjun’s hands are stained with ink and watercolour paint, and how the hallway outside renjun’s room faintly smells like paint when he has his bedroom door closed and windows open.

the whole time, ten itches to see more of renjun’s art. to talk about it. to know what renjun’s favourite mediums are, if he’s thought about trying canvas. what he likes to draw or paint.

but renjun doesn’t breathe a word about his art. he cracks jokes and insults his siblings, talks to his parents and doesn’t bring any attention to himself. he flies under the radar—or at least, he would’ve, if ten didn’t know about the sketchbook.

something about the whole thing rubs ten the wrong way. it makes him mad—not at renjun, but himself. but it’s hard to verbalise, to make sense of.

* * *

“alright, pops,” renjun says one afternoon, closing his sketchbook as he looks over at ten, who is blending up a smoothie (and trying to make out what renjun’s drawing like a _disgusting_ human, but he’s nosy, okay?). “you’ve been staring holes into my back recently. what’s up?”

ten turns the blender off and pauses for a moment, trying to think about what to say.

he could lie, but renjun’s always been too good at sniffing out bullshit. he could tell the truth, and his son may never speak to him again.

“baba found your sketchbook and showed me without telling me he didn’t get your permission to look at it,” ten blurts out. his mouth automatically went to option three—blame his husband, who had vowed to stick by him in sickness and in health, and when he throws him under the bus to remain the favourite parent.

renjun tenses, looks down at the offending sketchbook. ten’s heart sinks. “what?”

“i’m so sorry,” ten says, smoothie forgotten, walking over to his son. renjun looks at him, frowning, his expression hard to read. “i really told him off and made him put it back. i know it was meant to be private. we didn’t mean to snoop, i promise.”

renjun sighs, shrugs it off. “whatever,” he says. he crosses his arms, and ten can see renjun putting up the wall, and ten is suddenly _very_ upset.

“you’re incredibly talented, junnie,” he says, reaching out to touch the top of renjun’s head. “i’m sure you have your reasons for not telling us, but i just wanted to be able to tell you that.”

renjun shrugs his hand off, and ten realises why this whole thing has bothered him so much—renjun doesn’t seem to trust them. he doesn’t care how proud his parents are of him. if anything, it seems to bother him. “can i be excused?” renjun asks, turning away before ten can say anything else.

ten takes a deep breath and sends a long, frantic text to kun.

* * *

kun comes home with take out for four members of their family, and hot pot ingredients for renjun. yangyang and chenle wish their parents luck, and they knock on his bedroom door, together.

renjun opens the door after a few moments, red eyes staring at the gas plate kun’s carrying. ten’s heart drops and he feels like the worst parent living.

he just wants to hug his kid and make it better. but teenagers are complicated and he’s not sure what’s going on.

“this is a fire hazard,” renjun says, dryly, but he steps back, lets them in.

“is it okay if we set this up on your desk, jun?” kun asks, and renjun silently moves stacks of papers and books to one side, allowing kun to put the hot plate onto the table.

ten spots cheap art supplies around the room, and tempers down the bitterness, at the way he wishes he could’ve indulged renjun’s passions, at the way renjun didn’t want them to stick their noses in it at all.

“i’m sorry, renjun,” kun says, once the soup base is bubbling away. “i’m not very good at art etiquette, and i wouldn’t have kept looking if i knew.”

“i’m not mad you snooped,” renjun says, finally. “well, i kind of am. just don’t look at things that aren’t yours, ba, it’s not that hard.”

“see,” ten says, quietly. kun shoots him a glare in response. his gaze turns soft again, though, as he looks back at renjun.

“you’re right,” kun concedes. “i was pretty giddy looking at the artwork and i didn’t think about the implications. i’m sorry. forgive me?”

renjun is silent for a moment, before standing to start putting the meat into the hot pot. “yeah,” he says. “you too, pops,” renjun says, glancing over at ten.

kun sighs, in relief, breaking out in a smile, but ten’s not quite satisfied yet. “but you didn’t want to tell us about it at all,” he says. “why?”

renjun continues to prod at the broth. then he sniffles.

“chenle wants to be a pilot,” renjun says. “he’s always wanted to be a pilot and you’re so proud of him. and yangyang—he’s a bit tragic, but he likes fashion and you’re proud of him.”

“so?” ten asks, not following.

“i like art, and you’d be proud of me,” renjun says. “but i don’t know if i like art as like a career thing, or if it’s just for fun. i just like art. i didn’t want the pressure of… i dunno… disappointing you?”

renjun’s arm immediately comes up to wipe at his face. ten makes it there before kun does, wrapping renjun into a tight hug. he feels renjun shudder, letting out a large sob, and ten concentrates on rubbing renjun’s back, trying not to cry himself. (he needs to be a bad bitch—he knows kun’s already crying into the hot pot.)

“renjun,” ten says, seriously. he’s not very good at the serious stuff—he’s always been the cool dad, sentimental in private. but he needs to try. “you know your baba and i would literally be proud of you if you collected rubbish.”

“the best garbage collector in the city.”

“baba would probably be less proud if you became a murderer or something, but if you chose that path i know you’d be a fantastic assassin.”

“pops has some really weird morals.”

renjun chuckles quietly into ten’s shoulder.

“what we’re trying to say is,” ten says, “what _i’m_ trying to say is, we didn’t raise our children to be mediocre. whatever you decide to do—art, garbage collecting, entrepreneurship—we’ll always be proud of you. and we want to be there every step of the way, helping you out.”

renjun doesn’t say anything. kun adds mushrooms to the hot pot.

“i want you to feel comfortable talking to us about stuff,” ten says. “like, everything, junnie. crushes or art or homework or whatever. we’ll figure it out together. i don’t want you to be afraid—look, kid, did i disown yangyang for buying that leather apron? no.”

“no,” renjun echoes, laughing again.

“then i’m sure you’ll be okay,” ten’s confident.

“okay,” renjun says quietly. “sorry.”

“no need to be sorry,” kun insists, from over ten’s shoulder. “ _we’re_ sorry you didn’t feel comfortable talking to us.” there’s a pause, and then, “the meat’s ready. ready to eat, junnie?”

renjun nods, finally looking up at ten. ten quickly wipes at his eyes, and renjun takes a deep breath. “someone should call lele and yang…”

“i’ll text the family group chat,” ten says, holding renjun with one hand, fishing his phone out of his pocket with the other. “go eat, sweetie.”

when yangyang and chenle make it to the room, they thank renjun for inviting them up and make themselves comfortable on his bed. kun and ten sit on either side of their eldest son, fussing over him. renjun doesn’t protest, and ten’s heart feels light every time his baby smiles.

* * *

it takes renjun a few more weeks before he comes to ten with his sketchbook, holding the thing against his chest as he walks into ten’s office.

“i made something,” he says. “i really like it.”

ten tries not to look too keen, although he’s almost bursting with excitement.

it’s beautiful, of course. ten isn’t surprised that is. it’s full of bright colours--blues, yellows, pinks, purples. all soft and _dreamy_.

“you know,” ten admits, “this isn’t the artwork i would’ve expected from you, but i’m really glad that i was wrong?”

renjun frowns. “what do you mean, pops?”

ten shakes his head. “you were really giving me strong young johnny and mark vibes--”

“oh dear _god_ ,” renjun gasps, and ten can’t stop laughing. “pops, that’s so _gross_ , i can’t believe you thought so low of me--”

“like i said, i’m glad i’m wrong.” his son _isn’t_ going through a weird teen angst period, which is a real win for him, and a sign that johnny and taeyong’s perfect parenting might not be so perfect, after all. “this is _so_ pretty, renjunnie.”

“you really think so?” renjun puffs up at the praise, and ten beams.

ten stares back at the artwork, and he thinks for a moment. as he stares, a dress comes to mind--a dress that would require renjun’s print.

“if i paid you for this,” he says, “could i use it in a dress design?”

renjun’s eyes are wide. “what?”

“can i use this in a dress design? i’ll pay you.”

“pops, you don’t need to--”

“rule number one,” ten says, holding up a finger, “always make sure you get paid for your work if you're making art for others. pops is gonna pay you, renjunnie. it’s worth it.”

“i--okay.” renjun takes a seat opposite ten’s. then he frowns. “what’s rule number two, then?”

* * *

 

(the _ten x rj_ dress is one of the favourites of ten’s next collection. it gets praised everywhere from vogue to random comments on seedy parts of the internet. ten knows this because he carefully goes over everything this time, ready to sue anyone who tries to insult his son’s work. he reports a few of the nastier comments and leaves it at that, though, after kun convinces him that _renjun has to get used to the good and the bad, just like you did_. kun’s right. ten wishes he wasn’t, but there’s a reason why ten married that man.

ten pays renjun what he would pay any artist, but it _is_ a lot of money for a teenager to have. so he puts most of it into renjun’s trust fund, and asks if renjun is okay if he blows some of his money on a huge trip at ten’s favourite art supply store.

renjun accepts.

it takes them three trips back to the car to get all their stuff inside the house. kun judges them all the while, yangyang and chenle looking at all the different items curiously before deciding they needed a quick way to make cash and buy themselves a new playstation. ten helps renjun set up his new easel, listens to renjun happily babble about his new art supplies.

“--always wanted to try them, but everyone says you should buy good pastels or bust,” renjun says. “so i held off on them.”

“they’re a little messy, but we can get you some newspaper if you want to try them out, but i think you’ll really like using them,” ten says. “but it’s definitely more of a in-studio material--there’s this really good brush pack on procreate that you can tweak a little that can give you that pastel look. if you want, i can show you as soon as you get your ipad, okay?”

renjun all but skips into his bedroom. he looks back with a beaming smile and says, “thank you, pops!”

ten can’t help but feel so, _so_ excited for him.)

**Author's Note:**

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